My Stepbrother's Secret Obsession

✦ 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 ✦

If I lost the Vanguard International Fellowship, I already knew exactly who would win it. Tristan.

The thought alone was enough to make my jaw tighten.

The glare of the laptop screen was beginning to burn holes into the back of my eyelids. I blinked hard, rubbing the heels of my hands against my face, before leaning back in the plastic chair. The university computer lab was dead quiet. A glance at the digital clock in the corner of my monitor told me it was 9:14 PM.

Everyone else had gone home hours ago. Even the janitor had already done a lazy pass with the broom before leaving me to my misery.

I leaned forward again, my messy, raven-black hair falling into my face, and grabbed my pen. I started tapping it rhythmically against my jawline—a habit I only fell into when my brain was redlining. On the screen was my application essay for the Vanguard International Fellowship.

This wasn’t just a scholarship. It was a golden ticket. It was a full-ride, all-expenses-paid corporate residency in London that practically guaranteed a high-paying executive path right out of university. Only one student from our department would get it.

And I intended to make sure that student was Julian Hart.

I scrolled through the paragraphs, editing a sentence here and tightening a transition there. I knew for a fact that Tristan had left at seven. He had packed his things with a smug, fake-friendly smile, patted my shoulder, and told me not to kill myself over a draft because there was always next semester.

Like hell there is.

Tristan thought he had this in the bag because his family had connections. He thought his smooth-talking demeanor would glide him right to the finish line. But he didn’t understand one fundamental truth about me: I don’t let anyone outwork me. If Tristan was going to rely on his name, I was going to rely on absolute, undeniable perfection.

I hit 'Save Draft' and stared at the blue cursor blinking steadily against the white background.

My chest tightened slightly as I looked at the word Independence in my personal statement. To most kids my age, independence meant moving out of their parents' house or throwing parties without checking a curfew. To me, it meant safety.

I grew up learning early on that relying on other people was a luxury I couldn't afford. People make promises they can’t keep.

I wasn't speaking from bitterness, just experience. Life had taught me that even good people couldn't always keep their promises. Circumstances changed. People left. Dreams fell apart. Depending on someone else always came with the risk of watching your future disappear through no fault of your own.

They leave when things get too heavy, or they look at you with pity when you fail. If you hand someone else the keys to your future, you’re just giving them the power to lock you out of it. I didn’t want a safety net. I wanted to build my own empire, by myself, so that no one could ever claim they gave me a single brick of it.

With a definitive click, I shut down the laptop, packed it into my backpack, and stood up. My shoulders ached and my eyes felt like sand, but a cold sense of satisfaction settled in my gut as I walked out into the cool July night air.

Ten minutes later, I was pulling my keys out on the porch of the small, quiet house I shared with my mother. Before I even unlocked the front door, the rich, comforting scent of garlic, rosemary, and roasting chicken hit me through the screen.

I pushed the door open and dropped my heavy backpack onto the entryway bench.

“If this is a bribe to get me to do the gutters this weekend, it’s working,” I called out, kicking off my sneakers.

Elena Hart poked her head out of the kitchen, a wooden spoon in her hand and a smudge of flour on her apron. She looked at me, her eyes sweeping over my tired face and wrinkled shirt, and sighed.

“Look at you. You look like a feral graduate student who forgot what sunlight looks like. Have you eaten anything today besides black coffee and spite?”

I offered her a lazy, sarcastic smirk, walking into the kitchen to grab two plates from the cupboard.

“Spite is high in iron, Mom. It keeps me sharp.”

“Clearly,” she rolled her eyes, but her expression softened as she took the plates from me. She reached up, gently swatting a piece of my messy black hair out of my face. “Sit down. I made your favorite.”

We sat down at the small dining table, the atmosphere immediately filling with our usual easy, lighthearted banter. This house, and the two of us, had been a bubble for as long as I could remember. It was the one place where I didn't feel like I had to be on guard. I set the table, poured her a glass of water, and dug into the food, finally realizing exactly how starving I actually was.

“Tristan tried to psych me out in the lab today,” I said between bites, shaking my head. “The guy genuinely believes his own hype. He practically patted me on the head and told me not to waste my time because his family practically has a seat saved for him in London.”

She laughed quietly, shaking her head.

“And let me guess, you smiled and said something completely pleasant?”

“I told him that if the fellowship panel valued nepotism over a flawless academic record, he’d definitely have a shot at second place,” I replied, flashing her a sharp, lazy smirk.

She rolled her eyes, but her expression softened.

“Julian, you need to be careful with people like him. The world isn't just an arena.”

“It is if you want to win, Mom.”

She didn't answer right away. Usually, she’d have a quick, witty comeback ready to shut down my competitive rants, but instead, she just watched me. I kept talking, moving on to the final interview format for the fellowship next month, but as I reached for the water pitcher, I realized she hadn’t touched her food.

Something felt... off.

Throughout dinner, she had smiled at all the right moments, laughed at my sarcastic comments, and nodded whenever I talked about the fellowship. But every few minutes, her fingers drifted unconsciously to the ring finger of her left hand before pulling away again, almost as if she had caught herself.

She was just sitting there, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her glass. A soft, uncharacteristically nervous smile played on her face, and her cheeks held a faint flush.

I set the pitcher down, my slate-gray eyes narrowing slightly as I looked at her.

“Mom? What’s wrong? Is the chicken bad?”

Elena took a slow, deep breath. She looked up, her eyes bright with an emotion I couldn’t quite read, mixed with a heavy dose of anxiety.

“Julian... there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said, her voice dropping to a softer, gentler register. “I wanted to wait until the right moment, but... well, there’s never really a perfect time for something like this.”

A strange, cold knot began to form in my stomach. I stopped chewing.

“Okay. You’re making me nervous. Just spit it out.”

She reached across the table, covering my hand with hers. Her palm was slightly warm, slightly trembling.

“I’m getting married,” she said.

The words hung in the quiet air of the dining room.

I froze.

My fork hovered exactly halfway between my plate and my mouth. My brain, which usually processed information at lightning speed, completely stalled out.

Married?

We hadn't even talked about her dating anyone. There were no mysterious phone calls, no late nights out, no signs at all. My mind scrambled, trying to find a punchline, trying to figure out if this was some kind of elaborate joke, but the raw, vulnerable hope in her eyes told me it wasn't.

Before I could even swallow or force a syllable past my throat, my mother pressed forward. Her grip on my hand tightened, her voice a mix of deep excitement and quiet pleading.

“I’d really like you to come to dinner this weekend, Julian,” she said softly, her eyes searching mine. “I want you to meet them.”

I stared at her, the walls of my perfectly planned, controlled little worl

d suddenly shaking underneath me.

Meet them?.......